Chapter 260: Strippers Fuel My Twisted Vengeance Plot

Chapter 260: Strippers Fuel My Twisted Vengeance Plot
Dorian's POV

I sprawled across the center of a buttery-soft leather sofa, a Cuban cigar smoldering between my fingers, in the heart of The Ascend Society’s most elite VIP lounge.

My tie dangled loose around my neck, the top buttons of my shirt popped open. Two stripper chicks flanked me, their skimpy outfits leaving little to the imagination. One giggled, pressing her barely-covered tits against my arm, while the other traced a nail along my collarbone, whispering some bullshit about making my night. I didn’t give a damn. My eyes were glued to my phone, waiting for the call that mattered.

When it finally buzzed, I snapped it up. “Report.”

“Mr. Ravencroft,” the private investigator’s voice cut through, sharp and clear. “I just left the café. Miss Whitmore got the boot from Kingsley, just like your intel hinted.”

I took a long, slow drag on the cigar, the rich tobacco burning smooth as sin. “Details, now.”

“She bawled her eyes out, sir. Made a fucking scene. Kingsley laid it out cold—said he’s proposed to Ms. Calloway and wouldn’t touch Whitmore with a ten-foot pole.”

My grip on the phone tightened, just a flicker. That self-righteous prick and my goddamn ex-wife. “Send the surveillance shots. Where’s she at now?”

“Still at Davenport Coffee, sir. Looks like she’s devastated.”

Perfect. “Keep tabs on her. I want every move.”

I ended the call, exhaling a plume of smoke that blurred my reflection in the mirrored wall across from me.

“Leander fucking Kingsley,” I muttered, flicking ash into a crystal tray. “What a romantic dumbass... tossing a family-approved match for her.”

My knuckles rapped against the armrest, my mind already spinning through a dozen ruthless calculations.

One of the strippers picked up on my mood shift, sliding closer, her hand creeping up my thigh, dangerously close to my crotch. “What’s eating you, Mr. Ravencroft? Some bitch got you down?”

The other wasn’t about to be outdone, pressing her curves against my side, her breath hot on my neck. “I can make you forget any skank, baby.” She tugged at my tie, shooting a venomous glare at her rival.

I watched with cold amusement as they started clawing at each other for my attention, their petty catfight spilling into shoves and hissed insults. And just like that, a spark ignited in my head—a strategy snapping into place.

A smirk curled my lips as I pushed them apart with a lazy hand. “Ladies, thanks for the... inspiration.”

Charlotte Whitmore, the spoiled princess who’s never been told no, now publicly humiliated for Seraphina. That kind of shame festers into pure, beautiful hatred. With a little nudge...

Thirty minutes later, my Bentley sliced through downtown Apex, rain starting to speckle the tinted windows. The sky had turned ugly early, heavy clouds unleashing the first drops of what promised to be a fucking deluge. Through the glass, I clocked her instantly—a pitiful figure in pale pink, standing outside Davenport Coffee like a lost puppy.

Charlotte looked like shit, nothing like the glossy socialite splashed across tabloids. Makeup streaked down her face, eyes swollen and red. She stood frozen in the growing downpour, oblivious to the world around her.

I told my driver to pull up beside her, then rolled down my window. “Miss?” I called, lacing my tone with fake-ass concern I didn’t feel for a second.

She turned slowly, rain mixing with tears on her pale cheeks.

I stepped out with my umbrella, approaching with careful, measured steps. “You’re getting drenched. Let me give you a lift.”

“I... I don’t...” Her voice was a whisper, drowned out by the rain now hammering down in sheets.

I tilted the umbrella to shield her more than myself—a calculated little gesture she’d eat right up. “You’ll catch fucking pneumonia out here. Come on, let me help.”

She stared at me, eyes hollow, like someone drowning who’d grab any lifeline. I guided her to my car with a light touch on her elbow, opening the door and easing her into the warm, dry interior.

“You’re freezing,” I said, grabbing the cashmere throw from the back seat. I draped it over her shoulders with practiced gentleness. “Warm up with this.” I handed her a box of tissues from the console.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, dabbing at her face like a robot.

“Where do you live, Miss? I’ll get you home.”

She shook her head hard, panic flashing in her eyes. “No! I can’t... I don’t want anyone seeing me like this.”

“Something happen?” I asked, voice soft as silk, though I knew every damn detail. “You look wrecked.”

Her lower lip quivered. “Wrecked doesn’t even fucking cover it. It was... crushing.”

I stayed quiet, letting her stew in her misery, waiting for the dam to break.

“My Leander...” she finally choked out, voice cracking. “He rejected me. For her. After all these years, our history... our families’ goddamn expectations...”

Fresh tears spilled, and I passed her another tissue, my face a perfect mask of sympathy. I let my grip on the steering wheel tighten just enough for her to notice, a flicker of pain crossing my features for effect.

“Leander Kingsley, you said? And... Seraphina Calloway?” I layered my tone with just the right mix of shock and hurt.

Charlotte glanced up, curiosity cutting through her tears. “You know them?”

I let out a bitter chuckle, turning to face her. “This is fucking embarrassing to admit, but... I’m Seraphina Calloway’s ex-husband.”

Her eyes widened, mascara streaks forgotten for a moment. “You’re Dorian Ravencroft?”

I nodded, leaning back with a look of wounded pride. “The one and only. But, pardon me, I didn’t catch your name, Miss...?”

“Charlotte Whitmore,” she said, voice still shaky but now tinged with intrigue.

“Charlotte,” I repeated, as if tasting the name. “Well, Charlotte, I hate to pile on your pain, but Seraphina... she’s got a pattern. She slithered into my family, conned my grandfather into handing her 51% of my company shares, and then...” I paused, dropping my voice to a raw whisper. “I found out she was screwing Leander behind my back for months.”

Her jaw dropped, her own heartbreak shoved aside by this bombshell. “What? They were fucking around while she was married to you?”

I gave a solemn nod. “And now... she’s carrying his kid.”

“WHAT?” Her shout damn near rattled the windows, and I winced for show. “She’s pregnant?”

The rage twisting her face was pure gold—exactly what I’d banked on. I let a flicker of “regret” pass over my expression, like I’d spilled too much.

“Shit, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not public yet.” I rubbed my temples, playing the broken ex-husband to a T.

Charlotte was practically shaking with fury now, her hands gripping the cashmere throw so tight her knuckles went white. “That conniving bitch.”

Her eyes burned with a new fire, and I knew I’d planted the seed. Charlotte Whitmore wasn’t just a pawn now—she was a goddamn weapon, primed and ready to detonate.